


The Common Denominator

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: - incidental, 5 Times Plus 1, Big Brother Mycroft, Blow Jobs, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Illnesses, Kidnapping, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Being a Good Brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5508752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft is always bailing Sherlock out of tight spots. One day, it falls on Sherlock to put aside their childish arguments and save Mycroft's life.</p><p>Or</p><p>Five times Mycroft bailed out Sherlock and one time it was the other way around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Common Denominator

The Common Denominator

 

**One**

“Mycie!” Sherlock shouted. He looked around in a circle, but couldn't spot his brother anywhere and it was beginning to get dark, especially within the enclosed area of the woods.

He had told him not to wander off, but he was with Redbeard, nothing bad could happen. Mycroft didn't panic, though not an adult, he was already far too collected for that. Besides, panicking would help no one. He began retracing his steps, backtracking towards the last place he remembered actually seeing Sherlock. When he arrived, his baby brother was nowhere to be seen; however, the leaves had been disturbed in one direction and he could see a clear trail of broken branches.

All Sherlock could think while he was wandering around in circles was that Mycroft was going to kill him when he found him. Quite right too, he realised when he thought things through. If it got too dark Mycroft would have to go and find father and then they'd both be in for it. Finally, tired and feeling frustrated, Sherlock sat and leant against a tree. Redbeard draped himself across his lap, panting with his tongue hanging out. “Don't worry, Redbeard, Mycie will find us. You'll see,” but by an hour and a half later, Sherlock was exhausted and ready to break down, he was only 6, and he was extremely cold. Redbeard was doing a good job of keeping him warm laying atop him and snuggling in, but 6 hours of exposure wasn't good. His eyes drifted shut.

Due to the onset of night, Mycroft had been forced to retreat from the woods in favour of fetching a torch and, reluctantly, help. He didn't want to get Sherlock in trouble, but with the falling temperature, the situation was becoming dire. Fortunately, he had learned to control his impulsive deductions and had a few friends that lived right beside the park, with the help of their parents, they were sure to find the younger Holmes in next to no time.

Redbeard's head came up, his ears twitching at the familiar sound of Mycroft's voice calling out Sherlock's name. The movement startled the little boy awake and he rubbed his eyes blearily. He was cold, despite Redbeard's warmth, he was only a puppy. Finally, Mycroft drew near enough to be heard by his baby brother and Sherlock cried out, “Mycie!”

The distant footsteps came close, fast. Sherlock struggled to his feet, holding onto Redbeard tightly. Mycroft appeared from nowhere and scooped his baby brother up, the puppy too. “God, Sherlock, never do that to me again.”

“I won't Mycie, I promise,” he held tightly to Redbeard and snuggled his head into the crook of the older boy's neck.

Mycroft called over his shoulder. Their father came running up, a look of relief on his face. “Thank goodness, you're safe.”

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly at the less than normal approach. He took Sherlock from his brother's arms and left Redbeard where he was in Mycroft's arms.

“Where's Mummy?” Sherlock whispered.

“We thought it best not to tell her. Not until a more drastic plan needed to happen, she's still out for the evening.”

It was down to Sherlock's exhaustion that he rested his head against his father's shoulder and closed his eyes. He felt safe and knew he'd be warm soon, thanks to Mycroft.

 

**Two**

For the last two weeks, Sherlock tried everything he could think of to avoid going to school. He'd hidden more than once and tried his hand at playing ill. He wasn't playing at it anymore. There was a sharp pain in his lower right abdomen and he felt slightly feverish. Still, he'd faked both those symptoms last Thursday, so he only had himself to blame that Mummy didn't believe him. He remembered a story Mycroft had told him when he was much smaller. The boy who cried wolf, Sherlock had ignored it up until now. But he soon realised where his brother had been coming from. He remained in bed that morning, but wasn't surprised that his father appeared at the door, determined to send his youngest off to school no matter what.

Sherlock spent a miserable day at school, trying to hide how truly miserable he felt. The last thing he needed was to be sent home, his parents would be furious. He had to sneak to the loo twice to vomit and he could have sworn his abdomen was swollen.

When Mycroft spotted the teachers on a rampage around the school, he knew exactly what was going on. His baby brother was causing some sort of bother again. Sherlock's favourite hiding place was the boys’ toilet on the third floor, the first years weren't allowed up there so he was never bothered by his peers.

Sherlock was hidden in the toilet, struggling not to cry from the pain. He flinched when the outer door opened, not wanting to be seen, and pulled his feet up to better hide in the stall.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft called out. There was no response, but as he turned to leave, he heard a sniffle. He opened and closed the door again and heard two feet hit the floor, slowly he stepped forward in pushed the door in where Sherlock was revealed. “Do you realise you've got half the staff looking for you?” The older boy was caught off guard when Sherlock sobbed and he knelt down in front of him. “What is it Sherlock?”

“Nothing.”

Mycroft pressed the back of his hand against his brother's brow and hissed at the heat. “You're sick, 'Lockie.”

Sherlock only whined, his face screwed up in pain.

“Where do you hurt?” Mycroft's tone was gentle, but firm. He reached out and unwrapped Sherlock's arms from around his stomach, noting how pale Sherlock went. “It hurts here, doesn't it?” Mycroft pressed his fingers precisely over his brother's appendix.

Sherlock shook his but Mycroft could tell he was lying.

“Did you tell Mummy?”

He frowned slightly, but nodded.

“And she didn't listen?”

“Why would she, Mycie? I've...” Sherlock's words broke off as he doubled over in pain.

“You need help, Sherlock.” Mycroft coaxed his brother to his feet. “Come on, it'll be A&E for you.”

“No!” He shouted, immediately wincing.

“Not another word against it.” He scooped the small boy up into his arms and kicked the door open so he didn't have to put him down. About five teachers spotted them and rushed over.

When the ambulance arrived, Mycroft wanted to ride with him, but everyone insisted that he was just a child and it couldn't be allowed. He fought the hands that held him back when Sherlock called out for him desperately, not wanting to be separated. He didn't appear to surrender until a teacher climbed into the ambulance and its doors were slammed shut. Mycroft still wouldn't give in, though. He ran to the front of the cab before it pulled off, there was more than enough room there for him there so he climbed in.

“Mycroft Holmes! Out!” The teacher yelled behind him, it was Sherlock's form tutor, and by all accounts a right arrogant sod. His yell made Sherlock flinched and then cry out in pain.

“Mycie!” He cried.

The teacher looked from one brother to the other and was rather disappointed that Mycroft pushed through the gap in the seats and climbed into the back of the ambulance. Sherlock latched onto him immediately. Ignoring the teacher. “Get out, Mister Holmes.”

“Make me,” he growled out. “If I hadn't found him, you would have and he would have ended up in trouble for truanting despite the reason.”

When the ambulance pulled up at its destination, it was to find that both Holmes parents were already there waiting. Mummy was crying and Father held her as he tried to calm her down. Everything moved quickly, after that. Father went with Sherlock as he was rolled away for examination. Mummy stayed with Mycroft. She hugged her eldest son fiercely, “Oh, Myc, I should have seen.”

Mycroft didn't know whether to be comforting or angry with his mother. He couldn't help but think; “yes, you should have.”

“But he's been playing up for weeks.”

“There has to be a reason, Sherlock doesn't just play up for fun, if he didn't get anything out of it he wouldn't have bothered.”

Mrs. Holmes sighed, releasing Mycroft and patting him gently on the shoulder. “Do you know why he has been?”

“School's not easy for him, Mummy. The other children are cruel, they don't understand him.” It was a situation that Mycroft couldn't fix, no matter how badly he wanted to.

But his mother could. “Home schooling, then.”

“Just like that?”

“Why not, Myc?”

The boy shrugged. “If it's that easy why did you not pick up on it?”

Mrs. Holmes froze as her son brought up a good point. “I don't know,” she admitted. “No one wants their children to be miserable. Maybe I blinded myself to it.”

A nurse walked up. “Mrs. Holmes?” she asked.

“Yes?”

“Please come with me. I'll take you to your son.” She smiled reassuringly.

“Will he be okay?” Mycroft asked.

The nurse turned her smile on him. “I'm not allowed to discuss anything. I'm sorry.”

At Mycroft's disappointed look, she gave him a wink and he relaxed. They had got Sherlock to medical care in time.

**Three**

Sherlock sat in the Principal’s office. He was now 15 and a trouble maker was an understatement. He'd been found in the boys toilets, smoking, but that wasn't the half of it, nearby to where he had been with two friends was a large stash of cocaine. Sherlock claimed it wasn't his. For once, he was telling the truth, but it didn't matter whether he was or not, the Principle didn't believe him and that was what mattered. Sherlock was done talking, done trying to defend himself. Nothing he said would matter anyway and he was certain to be expelled, at the very least. He was done listening, as well, as the Principal was droning on at him endlessly. He wanted to leap up and flee. He didn't though. He knew that would get him nowhere. His mother was on the way to pick him up and he knew there was no way she would defend him, he'd been caught smoking and it wasn't such a leap to cocaine. Except, Sherlock had tried it a while back and hadn't found it to his tastes at all.

***

Mrs. Holmes knocked on the door and pushed it open at the call to enter. Sherlock was sat in one of the chairs opposite the desk with his feet up on his seat, his arms wrapped around his knees.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”

Sherlock flinched. This wasn't good. Sherlock dropped his feet to the floor and crossed his arms defensively across his chest. “Yes?”

“Don't you ‘yes’ me in that tone, young man.”

“Why are you here?” He asked. “I thought the idea of me being here all the time was so you could get away from me.”

There was a great deal of anger behind his words, but his mother didn't seem to hear it as anything but defiance. “The idea of you being here was to get you a quality education, something you seem to care nothing about.” Mrs. Holmes' hands were on her hips. “Seeing as you've been expelled, get your things, we're going home.”

“I haven't been expelled yet!” Sherlock explained. “Yes, I was smoking, but that cocaine was not mine!”

Mrs. Holmes shook her head in disappointment as she regarded her youngest son.

“You've as good as been,” she snapped. “Now get your things.”

Sherlock stood, sulkily and began gathering his belongings. It didn't take long, as he wasn't one for collecting pointless mementos or useless detritus - most of his possessions consisted of textbooks and such.

“Show me to your room, and pack your case.”

Sherlock sighed and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“You'll be seen in front of the governors next week, Sherlock,” the Principal said.

“Whatever,” Sherlock grumbled. He knew he wouldn't win, this idiot had had it in for him since day one.

Mrs. Holmes didn't let her son out of her sight as he stuffed his clothes into his case.

***

Mycroft had been distressed by the call from Mummy detailing the trouble Sherlock had landed himself in. He decided to make a point of going home to see how much of said trouble was deserved.

***

Sherlock's mother gave him a stern look as soon as they got in the door. “Your brother is coming home.” She looked him over from head to foot, taking in his dishevelled state. “Get a shower and put something decent on to wear before he arrives.”

“What's the point?” Sherlock skulked his way to his bedroom, ignoring everything his mother had said. He didn't care what Mummy thought or Father, for that matter. He did care what Mycroft thought, but he would never admit that to himself. He slammed the door to his room behind him and threw himself down on the bed. At least he use to care what Mycroft thought, but then he'd moved miles away and never saw him anymore.

“Sherlock, get down here!” His mother yelled a few hours later.

There was no chance of that happening. He grabbed his pillow and buried his head underneath it trying to block out anything anybody yelled at him. Even with his head covered, Sherlock heard the soft knock at the door. Neither of his parents would do him the courtesy of knocking, not as angry as they were. “Go away, Mycroft!”

His brother ignored the directive, opening the door quietly and entering. He looked at his baby brother, so obviously hurt and angry and wanted to fix everything for him. Mycroft sat in the chair that usually held Sherlock's discarded clothing and remained silent, hoping Sherlock would speak first. He didn't. He remained buried beneath his bedding unwilling to talk to anyone, let alone the one who had moved out and left him with imbeciles that were his parents.

Mycroft sat forward, leaning on his knees and threading his fingers together. “At least tell me why,” was his opening gambit.

Sherlock sat up abruptly and glared at his brother. “Why? Why, what?” He was snarling viciously. “Why my teachers are morons? Why my classmates are idiots? Why our parents only believe the worst of me? Or perhaps you want to know why I don't care about any of it?!”

Mycroft was more than taken aback, but he didn't let it show. Sherlock had never been this angry before. There had to be more to this than his mother had let on, the question was, could he unravel enough of what was going around in Sherlock's head to make sense of it all? He could try. “Start at the beginning.”

Sherlock dove back under his pillow. Mycroft sighed, then grabbed it and tugged, trying to get his brother to look at him. “Come on, 'Lock. Talk to me.” A huff sounded from under the pillow. That was enough, Mycroft tightened his grip and pulled it away, throwing it across the room.

“What the fuck!”

“Enough pissing around Sherlock, you need to talk to me right now or any chance of a career in the future will be over.”

“It's over anyway. I've been kicked out of school, Myc.” Sherlock's entire posture was defeated.

“That's not entirely certain, 'Lock, unless you continue being stubborn.” Mycroft willed his brother to open up to him like he used to. “You say our parents will only believe the worst. Well, I'm not either of them.”

“What can you possibly do, Mycroft?!” Sherlock spat, “and why would you even bother? It would not put you in good favour with our parents. They're the ones that can stop me getting kicked out of school. They won't bother because they won't listen.”

“Then I'll make them listen!” Mycroft wanted to shake some sense into his brother, but settled for reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. He fully expected Sherlock to throw him off, but he surprised him.

Sherlock's bravado fled, and he seemed to crumble. “The cocaine wasn't mine, Mycie. I was smoking, yes, but not that.” Sherlock looked away, not meeting Mycroft's eyes. The elder of the two knew that most others would take that as a sign of guilt, but he knew his brother better than that. Where Sherlock was concerned, it was a sign of defeat.

“Does Mummy know this?”

“She knows I was caught smoking and in possession of nearly a kilo. It wasn't even in my possession it was in one of the cisterns. It won't even have my fingerprints on it.”

Mycroft gave a sharp nod. “I'll take care of it.”

“You can't.” Sherlock sounded so very resigned.

“Watch me, baby brother. Just watch me.”

“What's the point, honestly, Mycroft? Mummy will never believe me.”

“She'll believe me.”

“That's not the point.” Sherlock's head flopped back into the pillow. “I was sent to that school so they could get rid of me when you moved out.”

“You weren't.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was taken out of school when I was 9 to be home schooled and yet when I turned 11 they shipped me off anyway. I don't understand why you would bother, they never have.”

“Because you're my brother.”

Sherlock scoffed, which hurt more than Mycroft let on. He considered, if half of what Sherlock said was true, then he had failed him in so many ways. He was determined to make things right. “What if you could change schools and live with me?”

“As if you'd want me. As if Mummy would let me do something I might enjoy. I'm the one who always lets the family down. The one about to get expelled from school. The one who's supposedly high on cocaine.”

“Enough! You're moving in with me, Sherlock. As far as you're concerned, that's the end of it.” Mycroft stood and walked to the door, determined to ignore any further protests. But Sherlock didn't offer any he just slumped back, thoroughly dejected.

Mycroft made his way down the stairs to find his parents arguing over Sherlock and what he had done to himself and to the family name. “Ridiculous!” Mycroft interjected into their heated discussion. “You're supposed to be the adults, but instead of trying to get to the truth of the matter, you're worried over the precious family name.”

“The truth of the matter?” Mrs. Holmes was amazed by her son's stupidity. “Mycroft, he was found in possession of a kilo of cocaine. If he wasn't selling it, then he is definitely using.”

“Have you actually asked him what happened?”

Mrs. Holmes' mouth clamped shut and Mr. Holmes interjected. “You mean to tell me you haven't actually spoken to Sherlock?”

“I picked him up and going by his attitude, he was guilty without needing to speak to him.”

“That wasn't guilt, Mummy, that was dejection!” Mycroft tried to remain atop his temper. “He knew no matter what he said he wouldn't be believed so he saved his breath, he knew the Principle has a biased viewpoint against him and he knew you would side with whatever he said and he was right, wasn't he?”

“But Sherlock was...” Mrs. Holmes trailed off at her son's angry, unimpressed look.

“It wasn't his stash,” Mycroft insisted. “It was found in the cistern. Was there any evidence of his guilt, or did everyone just assume, letting circumstantial evidence win out?” Both his parents looked slightly guilty at that. “He should be living with someone who listens to him.”

“We do listen!” Mr. Holmes insisted.

“You may do, but Mummy certainly doesn't. It's not fair on him. He's had a hard enough time boarding for the last four years, have you ever asked him about that?”

“He's always fine at holidays.”

“Is he? Or does he just not mention anything because he knows the sort of reception he's likely to receive? All I've got to do is look at him to know how unhappy he is at Eton.”

The Holmeses exchanged troubled glances. “What are we to do, then?” Mrs. Holmes asked. “He acted out at home, so we chose Eton.”

“And your decision told him he was unwanted. At least, that's the message you sent.” Mycroft shook his head in disgust thinking back to when Sherlock was younger and he was pulled out of school. His parents never learned. “Well, I'm telling him that he is wanted. Sherlock will be moving in with me. I'll arrange for his schooling.”

“But Mycroft-”

“No, Mummy, you've wasted four years of his life.”

“We have not wasted anything.”

“He's spent too long feeling unloved by the two people who are supposed to accept him, that's wasted time, now I'm helping him get his stuff together. He'll be coming with me. Tonight.”

It wasn't until Mycroft appeared to help him pack, that Sherlock dared to believe what his brother had said. He really was going to live with Mycroft and he was going to get away from that hated school. He was going to get another chance.

 

**Four**

Greg had had enough of Sherlock's excuses and he'd had enough of him ignoring the rules as he saw fit. “Shut it! I don't care if you think rules are boring. I don't care if you think they don't apply to you.” He manhandled Sherlock towards the Sergeant's desk. “This time you've gone too far. Coat.”

Even as he said, “But Lestrade-” he slipped from his Belstaff.

“No buts! Sherlock Holmes,” he added to the custody Sergeant.

“Cell 4.”

Sherlock sighed. “You can't be serious…” Greg grabbed his arm and began dragging him towards the metal gate.

“I'm used to your breaking of the rules when they are small, petty ones, Sherlock but when they involve your safety that is it.”

Sherlock glared at Lestrade through the bars of the cell door, standing stiffly, like an insulted cat. “I was perfectly safe,” he shouted at the DI's retreating back, then he turned, kicking at nothing in mid-air. The situation was intolerable. Donovan and Anderson were probably having quite the laugh at his expense. And the worst part was, he'd solved the crime, they'd caught the murderer.

***

“Lestrade!” He yelled half an hour later.

It wasn't the DI that appeared, though, it was Donovan, and she wasn't hiding her amusement.

“Ah, he's locked his pet up.”

The detective snarled at her. “Piss off, Donovan!”

“You know, here, Freak, you don't have control over anything. I could make this very unpleasant for you without a second thought.”

Sherlock laughed drily. “Try it!”

She bristled and tried to fix Sherlock with a glare, but he proved immune, keeping his mocking smile in place. “Just wait, Freak.” She turned and walked away, determined to cause the detective no end of trouble.

Sherlock sank back on the bunk at the back of the cell, he had no idea how long he'd be cooped up in here but the less the better.

When the DI appeared at the door Sherlock became hopeful, but when he saw the dour expression on his face he knew it wasn't to be. Sally had run straight to her boss and no doubt made something ridiculous up.

***

Mycroft wearily set the report he was studying aside in favour of listening to whatever Anthea had entered his office to say.

“Your brother's been arrested, Mr. Holmes.” She crossed her arms, waiting for his response.

“What's he done this time?”

“The usual, sir,” She smiled crookedly, “but he was arrested on a breaking and entering.”

“And?”

“It appears that sergeant he goes head to head with, Donovan, is causing trouble. Claims he's being unruly and causing a disturbance.”

***

Greg paced into the cell. “Empty your pockets.”

“What?”

“Now, Sherlock. Or do you want me to do it for you?”

“Why?”

“Enough with the questions. Empty your pockets.”

“Piss off, Lestrade.” He rolled over to face the wall.

The DI glanced over his shoulder where Donovan had appeared and folded her arms. Greg rolled his eyes, leant down, grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of his shirt collar and hauled him to his feet. He pressed him into the wall. “Hands against the wall, I'm conducting a search as a colleague has reason to believe you have illegal substances on you.”

Sherlock complied, though he growled deep in his throat. He wouldn't have cared about the search, except that it was Sally who had brought it about.

Greg, of course, found nothing.

“Really, Sally,” he snarled in her direction, “That was a bit petty, even for you. Has Anderson patched things up with his wife? Been a bit neglectful?”

“Shut it, Sherlock! Sit down.” Greg pointed back at the bunk.

“Why should I? This is bollocks, Lestrade and you know it.”

“Sit. Down.”

“No!”

Greg reached out and took Sherlock by the arm in a firm grip. The younger man tried to shrug him off, but Lestrade wasn't having it. He half led, half dragged Sherlock to the bunk and forced him to sit.

“I can't believe you're putting on such a show for Donovan,” Sherlock spat. “She's playing you, Lestrade, and you know it.”

“I am not the one putting on a show here, Sherlock, you are. Now grow up!”

The detective glared at him. “I won't help you on any more cases.”

Greg just shook his head and made his way back to the door.

Sherlock crossed his arms, trying to project indifference and disdain when what he was really feeling was frustration and annoyance. The only thing that could make this worse would be for Mycroft to show up and gloat. He turned sideways on the bunk when the cell door slammed shut and closed his eyes. He still couldn't believe it. Yes, he'd broken into that flat, but he wasn't to know the murderer would still be armed! He tapped insistently against the wall as he waited and waited. Eventually, the door opened up again, of course it was bound to be Mycroft, he still lived with him after all.

“What have you done, baby brother?”

“Piss off, Mycroft, I don't need you sticking your nose in.”

The government official shook his head. “If I don't 'stick my nose in', Sherlock, you'll end up with a criminal record.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Gregory can sort this if I tell him you've learned your lesson.”

“Gregory now, is it? Are you going to kiss him?”

“Is that the best you can do, baby brother?” Mycroft couldn't help smirking just a bit. “That insult was woefully lacking.”

Not having his violin to torture, Sherlock resorted to sticking his tongue out at his insufferable brother. “I'm perfectly content to remain here,” he lied. “But go ahead, do what you want. You will anyway.”

“Well then, you can stay here. I think court appearances start at 6.30. I'll make sure you're in the earliest one, yes?”

Sherlock rolled his and turned his back on his brother seeing as there was little else he could do.

The night passed miserably for Sherlock, though he had experienced worse. He hadn't managed to get any sleep and the bunk was hideous for resting, either stretched out or sitting. 6:30 finally arrived, bringing with it an entirely too chipper Lestrade and a smug looking Mycroft.

“What? Are both going to gloat during the hearing?”

The other two men exchanged long suffering looks.

“It's not too late to change your mind, Mr. Holmes,” the DI commented to Mycroft.

The detective didn't say anything further, the case he'd been on with the DI had lasted 4 days, even he couldn't go without rest that long and another night without any sleep had made Sherlock exhausted beyond belief. He couldn't be bothered to fight or argue with whatever Mycroft was going to do to him.

Greg grabbed him by the arm much like he'd done last night and pulled him out of the cell. “Wrists,” he said.

Lestrade handed the keys to the handcuffs to Mycroft. “Whatever you have planned, Mr. Holmes, I really don't want to know. Just see if you can convince him to consider his own safety occasionally, yeah?”

The government official gave Greg a slight smile. “Indeed, Detective Inspector. I shall endeavour to do so.”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock by the newly appeared cuffs and dragged him outside where the black sedan waited.

“In,” he ordered sharply.

“Look, Mycroft, before you have a go can I sleep?”

“No, Sherlock, you can't, it's time for you to learn a lesson. Your life is worth more than you seem to believe. Now get in and shut up.”

The only reason Sherlock remained quiet during the ride was his exhaustion. The only reason he didn't fight while getting out of the car was his wish to get the entire ordeal over with and sleep. When Mycroft sat him down and dropped the old family photo album in his lap, it was too much. “Sentiment, Mycroft? Am I supposed to break down in tears now?”

Mycroft just stood, arrogant as ever in his three piece suit with his hands on his hips.

Sherlock rattled the cuffs and his older brother shook his head. “Open it.”

“Why? To look at all the times Mummy abandoned me?”

Mycroft understood their parents' dilemma in raising Sherlock better now. He still couldn't bring himself to approve of their decisions, but he at least could see that they had cared. He shook his head as he replied, “No, Sherlock, to look at all the times she tried.”

“How did she try, Mycroft?” He grumbled. “You took me away from her because of her shit parenting not because it was brilliant.” Sherlock made a valid point.

“What about that time I ended up in A&E? That was only because of you. And when the acid battery leaked. Then there was the fire, the exploding radiator and the time I got lost in the woods.”

“Fine.” Mycroft took the photo album and turned to set it aside. He glanced quickly at Sherlock, hesitating briefly. “Then use your brain, for once, baby brother. Find the common denominator to those events and I don't mean your penchant for getting into trouble.”

Sherlock sniffed slightly and then dropped his head in realisation. “You,” he said after a deep and meaningful sigh. Of course it was Mycroft.

 

**Five**

Sherlock kicked futilely at the metal door. “They could have at least been original. An industrial freezer? Really? Idiots.”

Teeth chattering, John replied drily, “It's not on par with the Diogenes, I'll grant you that. Christ! Just be glad you're dry.”

Turning to face the doctor, Sherlock removed his Belstaff. “If you didn't insist on falling in the Thames at every opportunity, you would be dry too.” He thrust the Belstaff at John. “Get your wet clothes off and wrap up in this.”

“You want me to get naked in front of you?”

“I want you to be warm, so you'll stop complaining.”

“If you had been pushed into the Thames you'd be complaining too!” John exclaimed indignantly.

Sherlock walked over and started unfastening John's soaking wet coat. “If you don't get these off, you'll succumb to hypothermia far quicker.”

The doctor swore, “Dammit!” He was forced to surrender to the inevitable and let Sherlock help him as his own fingers were already cold and stiff from his earlier plunge in chilled water.

When they got to John's shoes, he had to toe off each one and step onto Sherlock's boat-like shoes - it was the only way to keep his wet socks from freezing to the floor. “Christ, Sherlock. This will never work.”

“Well, have you got any better ideas? Doctor?”

John glared at him, but that was the only energy he had to waste.

“Now get into my coat,” Sherlock ordered when John was stood in his pants only.

“That's better, but fucking hell it's cold!” John complained.

Sherlock stepped closer, opened the coat that was wrapped around the doctor and stepped into him. John froze.

“Come on, John. You need warmth. Wrap the coat around the both of us. My body heat will help to warm you.”

“Are you sure you're not up to anything else?” John was only being half sarcastic.

“Really John, if sucking you off would warm you up I would do that.”

A puff of air rushed out of John's lungs and he couldn't breathe.

Sherlock smirked in a self-satisfied fashion. “You like that idea.”

“No! No, no, no. You can't just say things like that.”

“You're correct, John. Talking is boring.”

“That's not what I... Oh God!”

Sherlock's hands had wandered beneath the waistband of his trousers.

“Is it the cold that's made you hard or me?”

John swallowed awkwardly around chattering teeth. He chose not to answer.

“I know another way to warm you up…” Sherlock offered seductively.

“Getting us out of here?” If John had any excess warmth he would have blushed.

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the 'p'. His hands wandered, one over John's erection and the other over the doctor's arse, then he fell to his knees.

“If you get me out of my pants Sherlock Holmes this friendship is over.”

“It's over anyway.”

He swallowed John down in one go.

John whined deep in his throat. “Sh... Sh... Sherlock, that's... Jesus Christ, fucking hell, but you're bloody amazing.”

The detective smirked at him without pulling off John's cock, his lashes fluttering.

There came a clank as the door to the freezer opened. “Should I come back later, then?” Mycroft's face was placid in expression except for the eyebrow that threatened to disappear into his slightly receding hairline.

John was all ready to pull out of Sherlock's mouth and run for his life, but the detective held one finger up to his brother indicating he should give them a moment.

“Sherlock, come on,” John urged.

He said something around the doctor's cock, but all John understood was vibrations.

John's hands came up and fisted in Sherlock's hair. “Not in front of your brother,” the doctor growled. “I don't fancy another dip in the Thames.”

Sherlock reluctantly popped off John's cock. “Piss off, Mycroft.”

The elder Holmes hadn't moved an inch. “At least let me take you to a decent hotel.” He glanced at John's face. “I believe the good doctor would appreciate the change in scenery.”

Sherlock, for once in his life took John into consideration. Nothing he could do here wouldn't be able to happen in a warm hotel after a warm shower. Reluctantly, he nodded and allowed the blond to tuck his cock away.

John, red in face, but not just from the cold, walked out of the freezer with Sherlock's Belstaff wrapped tightly around him. He looked anywhere but at Mycroft.

Sherlock had no such qualms. He swaggered from the freezer, giving his brother a cheeky grin. Much to his surprise, Mycroft gave him a small nod and a wink.

 

**Five+**

Sherlock slumped back into the sofa sighing heavily.

“That you, 'Lock?” John called from the kitchen.

He hummed in response.

“Tough day, huh?”

“It would have been easier if you didn't have to work.”

John rolled his eyes. “Rent, milk...”

“Bread, tea,” Sherlock finished for him. “Yes, I am well aware that money is necessary for day-to-day survival, but I was bored, John. Bored!”

“How was it a tough day if you were bored?”

“I wasn't bored. I lied. I don't know why you bother working. Mycroft pays for everything.”

“Right. So why do you need me again?”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes widened dramatically. “But you're essential, John.”

The doctor walked over and settled on the sofa by Sherlock. “Mmm, flattery. I'm worried. Tell me about your 'hard' day.”

Sherlock chose to ignore that and just buried his head in John's chest.

The doctor chuckled softly and brought his hand up to the untameable curls.

“Alright then, let me guess - Mycroft.”

“Obviously.”

John laughed. “So what did your 'evil' brother want?”

At that, Sherlock smirked. “Another request to help the crown. Even threatened me with a knighthood. Again.”

John laughed. “What have you got against it? Sir Sherlock.” John laughed. “Actually, fair point.”

“Hey! It wasn't that I protested against. It was the Lord Holmes bit that got me. Far too much like my father.”

He tried to hide it, but the corners of John's mouth quirked up in mirth. “You'll be in trouble when he figures that out.” At Sherlock's blank look, he explained, “He'll turn it about, threaten you with a knighthood if you don't help him.”

The detective's mobile rang. He ignored it. It kept ringing.

“Go ahead and answer it, Sherlock. If it's Mycroft again, he'll keep calling until you do.”

He glanced at the screen. “It's not Mycroft.”

The phone rang off and immediately started up again.

Sherlock sighed and swiped his finger across the screen. “Sherlock Holmes.” He listened for a moment and then sat forward, jerking John slightly. “I'm on my way.”

John pulled on his coat and grabbed the Belstaff. “Sherlock, that wasn't Greg, so who was it?”

“Anthea. Mycroft's disappeared from surveillance and hasn't checked in.”

“In how long?”

“6 hours.”

“That's not that long.” He helped him into his jacket all the same.

“He hates it when I don't check in twice a day so there's no way he'd avoid it if given the choice,” his tone took on a slightly panicked squeak. “He's always been there for me John, ever since I was a child.”

Well, John pondered. This was a different side to the detective.

They grabbed a cab - Sherlock didn't want to wait the four minutes until the car Anthea had sent arrived. He tossed a handful of notes at the cabbie, called out an address and promised more money for a swift journey, the faster the better.

Sherlock charged from the cab and John needed to grab the detective's collar and spin him around. “You need to calm down, you're no good to anyone like this.”

“There's no time!”

“Yes, there is. If you don't calm down, your deductions will be compromised.”

Sherlock's hands flew to his hair and he yanked hard on his curls, trying to force himself to slow down and think. John moved his hands out of the way and grabbed him by the back of the neck. Mycroft's entire security detail were around them, but he didn't care. He quickly smashed their lips together. The younger man seemed to sink into it.

“You calm now?”

Sherlock nodded dopily and then shook his head as if to clear it.

“Sherlock? Are you calm now?”

“Yes. Yes, I'm good.”

“Come on then.”

Sherlock went into action, shouting for information and yelling at anyone who was unfortunate enough to get in his way.

Anthea was intelligent and used to working with a Holmes. She provided photos, surveillance footage and background information as fast as it was demanded.

Sherlock even managed to crack a smile at her. “Call Lestrade,” he ordered, “have him meet us at,” he glanced down at the surveillance and then his watch. “Battersea.”

John heaved a sigh, then chased after Sherlock, yelling out as he went, “I'm starting to really hate that old power station!”

This time Sherlock did climb into the back of the waiting sedan ordering the driver rather sharply. John followed him in and apologised to the driver. He just shrugged obviously used to the self-importance of a Holmes.

Upon their arrival, Sherlock was off again like a shot. John ran after him, legs pumping to keep up. As he rounded a corner, he almost ran the detective Sherlock had an arm held up, cautioning silence and stealth. 2 men were stood outside of a door. That was where Mycroft was, no doubt. He went to push John back into the wall but found he'd already done so, the army was good for something then.

“That door is titanium,” Sherlock said. “It'll take me at least a minute.”

Their eyes locked and unspoken words passed between them. Though he would have liked to have his SIG, they had left the flat in too great a hurry. He would have to rely on his army training. John gave a decisive nod, then stepped out boldly. “Afternoon, gentlemen.” They both turned to him levelling their own handguns.

“What are you doing here?” One asked with a clear Scottish accent.

“Well, see there's the question.”

“Don't play games.”

John shrugged.

“I'm looking for two ugly mugs, I was told to look around here.”

They shared a glance and John knew he had succeeded when they both gave chase. Idiots.

Sherlock already had his lock picks at the ready. As soon as it was clear, he set to work, his concentration focused, laser sharp, on the task at hand. At 57 seconds, there was a satisfying click and the door began to swing open. It wasn't until he snuck in that he began to worry about John. But speaking of the devil... John slipped in after him and closed the door, panting heavily. “Ran rings around them, they think I went through the gate.”

Sherlock grabbed his hand. “Come on then.”

The hallway turned sharply to the left just a few feet in. Sherlock paused, listening and heard an unfamiliar male voice speaking, though he couldn't make out the words. There was a pause, as if the man were listening to someone, probably Mycroft, followed by a thudding impact and a muffled grunt.

John noticed his partner bristle and went to charge off. The doctor grabbed him again. “Think Sherlock,” he hissed. “We have no idea how many people are in there, we could take on 3 but 5 or 6? We've also got no idea what state Mycroft's going to be in.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrating on the sounds coming from around the corner - shoes scuffling, metal clicking, heavy breathing... one, two, three... four. He peaked around the corner and confirmed his deduction. He held up a hand, displaying four fingers.

Just then Sherlock's phone buzzed.

“Fuck sake,” he growled quietly and glanced at the screen. “It's Anthea.” He lifted it up. “What?”

“I can't get hold of Detective Inspector Lestrade. I've tried him on all numbers.”

“So?”

“Well Mr. Holmes was with him the last time he checked in.”

“You mean they're both in there?”

“There's always something.” Sherlock gave an impatient shake of his head. “Why didn't I see him?” He peered around the corner again, confirming what he had seen earlier - four men were scattered about the room, only two of them were turned to look at Mycroft, the other two were acting as guards. “They're holding him separately.”

“Or…”

“Don't even go there John. The only chance we stand is if we go in full force.”

“With what? My SIG's at home.”

“Well, there's got to be a cupboard full of weapons around here somewhere, this was well planned. We'll find it then you go on to find Greg. I'll deal with my brother.”

They backtracked a few feet to the door they had passed on the right. John tried it, finding the door unlocked. He opened it gingerly, just a bit at first. When nothing happened, he pushed it wide and they stepped through, closing the door behind them. It would have been too much to hope to find weaponry so close to hand, but there was some old piping lying about. While they searched, it would be better than nothing.

They wielded the pipes and set off. They from when they heard another muffled grunt. “John, I can't leave him any longer, this will have to do. Find Greg.”

John nodded and kissed him quickly. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

Sherlock smiled. “Narrows it down.” He headed back towards where they'd come in.

Sherlock had returned to the hallway and stopped briefly to peak around the corner once more. He drew his head back and quickly formed a plan of attack - he would need to take out the two armed guards first. Stepping around the corner, arm raised, he lowered the pipe in a furious downward arch. It connected with the guard's temple, making a satisfying crunch. Sherlock didn't pause, simply stepped around the falling man as he charged the other armed guard. It made a commotion, but he managed to grab two fully loaded Glocks out of it. He shoved one in his waistband and held the other one tightly. The door swung open and Sherlock caught the next guy under the chin, they were falling like dominoes. He slid into the room and without a second thought fired at the guy leaning over Mycroft. He collapsed in a heap and Sherlock skidded to his knees in front of his brother, alert for any more men around.

He pulled the lump of cloth from Mycroft's mouth.

“'Lock?”

“Hello, big brother.”

“Where's Gregory?” He croaked.

“John's gone to find him. They'll be fine.” Sherlock made quick work of his brother's bonds. “Can you walk?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Broken ankle, a couple of ribs, too, but I don't matter, Gregory does. Go.” He pushed at Sherlock feebly, exhausted by his ordeal - it may have only lasted a few hours, but his captors had done quite the job on him and he wasn't getting any younger.

“No. I'm getting you out of here.”

“But 'Lock-”

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered, brushing his hair back. “Can you sit?” He nodded. “It's a good job you've been on this diet of yours, Myc.” He picked him up the only way he could without hurting him further, one arm went around his shoulders, the other under his knees. “There's an ambulance waiting outside, Anthea's sorted it all.”

By now Mycroft was dozing in and out of consciousness.

Sherlock hadn't gone far when he came face to face with Anthea. There was a heartbeat during which he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun, but Mycroft's 'PA' was quick to pull the weapon back. “Is anyone following you, Sherlock?”

“No, but John's gone to find Lestrade.”

Anthea nodded. “Get Mr. Holmes to the ambulance, everything is clear the way I came.” She noted the conflicted look on Sherlock's face. “I'll fetch DI Lestrade and Doctor Watson.”

“But I should-”

“Go!” Her tone was no nonsense and she pointed back through the building. Sherlock sighed and for once did as he was told, holding his brother tighter. Mycroft woke up just as they reached the ambulance.

“Sherlock?”

“It's alright, Mycie,” he lowered him to the table, but Mycroft didn't let him go.

The two paramedics rushed around him and Sherlock explained what was broken and his suspicions about concussion.

“Where's Gregory?”

The detective smiled sadly. “I don't know.”

Mycroft's eyes drifted shut, but his fear for the DI remained written clearly on his face.

Sherlock put a hand on his brother's shoulder in a reassuring fashion. “I'll go get him for you, Mycie. I swear I will,” he promised, but Mycroft couldn't hear him, he had surrendered to his injuries and passed out.

“Have you…” he trailed off when one of the medics nodded.

“He'll be fine, he'll just sleep for a while.”

“I'll follow in a while can you send another ambulance?”

She nodded and Sherlock actually thanked her before climbing out. He took off at speed back towards the building climbing over two more bodies than the ones he'd put there.

Anthea had found John, but he was collapsed back against the wall, semi-conscious. Greg was out cold.

“Is he?” He was lost for words.

The PA shook her head. “He's just unconscious. John's a bit more serious.”

The detective knelt in front of him and cupped his cheek. “What happened?”

John couldn't answer, but there was blood everywhere.

“Chase up that ambulance,” Sherlock ordered not taking his eyes from John. “There's one more on the way, but get another for Greg.” Anthea nodded.

Sherlock fretted, going back and forth between the two men, checking their vitals and looking for hidden injuries. Anthea had gone for help just three minutes ago, but the medic had already called for a second ambulance at that point, so it should be arriving momentarily, the third would be approximately 8 minutes out. As soon as he'd found the point of blood loss on John he wrapped his scarf around his leg pulling it tightly. “How'd you manage to get shot in the leg, John? Trust you to be difficult.”

“Yeah, that's me,” John husked groggily, “I live to cause you trouble.” He winced. “Damn, but that hurts. How's Greg?”

“He's unconscious and I've placed him in the recover...” Sherlock cut off abruptly as medics appeared. He stepped back and let them do their job.

“She said there was a doctor here?” One of the medics questioned, looking at Sherlock, he just pointed at his doctor on the floor. “Ah.”

“Greg's alright, just unconscious I don't think there's anything broken, but John's got a gunshot wound in his upper thigh.”

“Look at you sounding technical,” John murmured. Sherlock poked his tongue out good-naturedly.

John tried to convince Sherlock to go with Greg to A&E to no avail - the detective wouldn't be separated from John again so soon. Secretly, the doctor was pleased by that and took comfort in Sherlock's presence during the ride. Upon arrival, however, they were immediately separated. Sherlock soon began wreaking havoc. At every turn, he accosted nurses and doctors alike, seeking information on John, Mycroft and Lestrade. Fortunately, Anthea found him and took him to a small room that was normally used for consultations between staff and family members.

“Mr. Holmes is under heavy sedation, he'll be out until at least tomorrow, DI Lestrade's awake, but groggy and Doctor Watson is in surgery. The doctors with Mycroft want to congratulate you.”

“What? Why?”

“Your brother's rib was very close to puncturing his lung, any more pressure and it was a guarantee. You saved his life.”

“I want to see him.”

***

Sherlock paused in the doorway, and looked at Mycroft. His brother's colour was good, his breathing steady and the heart monitor issued reassuring beeps. A few steps brought the detective to Mycroft's bedside where he hesitated, then reached out a shaky hand. Sherlock tugged the bedclothes up and tucked them in under his brother's chin as he whispered, “I'm glad I could finally be there for you, Mycie.”


End file.
